


Downward Spiral

by Miso



Series: A War He Can't Forget [19]
Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: Arguing, Emotional Hurt, Hospitalization, I am so sorry, M/M, Near Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, out of chronological order at this point i am S O R R Y, this is half vent fic and half muse explosion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 06:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12150498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: Floyd's suicide attempt, in gritty detail.





	Downward Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS IS A NIGHTMARE. half-vent fic, half-actual desire to write meet and produce this thing. :C floyd is def not ok. takes place between "transitional object" and "emotional vomit." obviously, HUGE trigger warning for suicide and suicidal thoughts. i'm not entirely sure of the process when someone attempts to end their life via overdose so yes, the hospital scenes are a bit fudged!

Some mornings, Floyd could wake up and feel almost normal. There would be no crushing weight on his shoulders or dull, empty feeling in his chest, and his legs wouldn't feel like lead as he untangled himself from the blankets, kissed his handsome boyfriend good morning, and stretched as he wandered into the bathroom for a shower. Maybe sometimes he'd feel a pang of unspecified negativity, or hear the little voice in the back of his head telling him what a disgusting, worthless piece of shit he was, but he could at least ignore them and get on with his responsibilities. After all, he was a 40 year old man, in a serious long-term relationship, with a house and a job and car payments and a mortgage to worry about. He didn't have time to be a sadsack. There was shit to do.

But that was just the good days. On bad days, days like today, Floyd woke not with his alarm, or even when Earl rose for the morning and either headed into the bathroom to shower or downstairs to fix breakfast. He woke well after the sun had risen, so late that he knew he would never be ready to get to work on time. Not when he had to shower, brush his teeth, shave, comb his hair, get dressed, get in his car, drive to the studio... it all seemed _overwhelming._ The idea of being on camera nauseated him. He wouldn't even have time to eat breakfast. Not that he deserved it, of course. He'd done nothing to deserve eating.

So he lay in bed, motionless, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning and trying to just go back to sleep so he could pretend it wasn't a new day with new responsibilities to deal with. Behind him, the bedroom door opened quietly. Footsteps on the carpet came closer, a weight settled on the bed beside him, and a hand gently touched his shoulder. "You okay?" Earl whispered.

"No."

"Feel sick?"

"... Yeah. Sure." Floyd didn't notice how monotone his voice was. He didn't care.

"Do you want me to tell Edith you're sick...?"

"Whatever."

He didn't bother turning over. He could almost hear Earl's brow furrow with worry. "Floyd, baby, are you... do you want me to call off? I can stay and keep you company if you want."

"Go. I don't care."

And thus, a few minutes later, Floyd was alone in this too-big house, too-big bed, too-big world. Earl had kissed him on the temple and promised to come home and check in at lunch. He wasn't sure what time it was, but eventually, he pulled himself out of bed and migrated to the couch. A glance out the windows showed it was probably mid-morning, 8 or 9. Lunch was at 12 and Earl would probably be back to "check on him" by 12:30.

He felt his stomach grumble, and though food wasn't interesting to him, Floyd resigned himself to shoving something into his mouth to fuel his disgusting, worthless body. He stared into the fridge for a solid 3 minutes. It wasn't like there was nothing to eat. Even if there hadn't been leftovers from dinner, and various fruits, and even packaged junk in the pantry, Earl had packed away a serving of pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs for him in the fridge. Sweet, but Floyd couldn't bear the idea of eating more than the bare minimum necessary for survival.

Settling back onto the couch and placing a "sandwich" (really just mustard and turkey) and bag of pre-packaged pretzels on the coffee table, Floyd stared at the food for a moment, trying to will himself into actually eating it. Like his arms were concrete, he slowly reached out, picked up the sandwich, and took a bite. It tasted, and felt, a lot like eating dirt. _Of course it does, you fucking moron. You don't deserve it._

He put the sandwich down and stared at it after forcing himself to swallow that one tiny bite he'd taken. Suddenly, any semblance of an appetite he'd had was gone. With a heavy sigh, Floyd disposed of the remaining sandwich and replaced the pretzels in their spot in the pantry, then sulked back to bed, curling up in a semi-protective ball. The darkness that settled over him was immediate and oppressive. The voice that usually resided in the back of his brain came to the forefront almost as immediately.

_Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Look at yourself. You could be doing something productive but you're just sitting here feeling sorry for yourself._ Floyd closed his eyes to hold back the tears. _Dad always said you ruined everything. Guess he was right! You're a miserable fuck-up! I wonder how much trouble you got Earl in when you made him lie to Prickley and Caballero. For claiming to love him, you sure do hold him back a lot._

"Please stop it," he whispered to no one, tears pooling in his eyes and threatening to spill over. The voice was louder. _I bet he actually hates you. He's with you because he feels sorry for you. He couldn't give less of a shit about you if he tried. You really think anyone would ever love you?_ Floyd sobbed quietly, shuddered, and gripped at his own hair. "Stop it..." _No one could love you, and no one should. You don't deserve that, either. Disgusting fucking perverts like you don't deserve it. One day he's going to wake up, realize what a worthless pile of shit you are, and leave you like he should've years ago._

It wasn't anything new. Floyd had known that little voice in one form or another most of his life. He'd heard it since childhood. The problem was it had never been so loud before. He curled in on himself and sobbed harder as it repeated itself, over and over and over. The same things; worthless, useless, disgusting, pathetic, unloved, unwanted, unnecessary. By the time he'd cried himself dry, and no more tears would come, the voice had switched gears, and he felt like he was on autopilot.

_Would anyone really miss you?_

Standing up.

_You know they wouldn't. They can all do better._

Into the bathroom.

_They won't have a funeral for you. Just throw you into a mass grave, shovel dirt over you, and let you rot._

Opening the cabinet.

_You know your parents won't miss you. They'll be glad to have one less unwanted, whiny little shithead to put in the will._

Grabbing his Klonopin, a bottle of Tylenol, and over-the-counter allergy pills for insurance.

_That should do it. With any luck, you'll feel everything. You don't deserve to fall asleep and not know what happened._

Taking the bottles downstairs, settling them on the coffee table, and opening his liquor cabinet. Retrieving a bottle of whiskey.

_That's it. Good boy. Chase it with booze. Make damn sure there's no way you come out of this._

A pause. Grabbing a piece of paper from the scrap paper pile in the kitchen junk drawer, a pen, and sitting on the couch.

_What are you doing? It's not like anyone will care enough to read it._

Pausing again, but then writing seven words. Grammar out the window. 'you tried. im sorry. i love you.'

_That for your boyfriend? He'll crumple it up and throw it in the garbage._

A deep sigh before taking the cap off the Klonopin and then repeating the action with the whiskey, the Tylenol, the Benadryl.

_Good. End it. No one will care._

A haze. Handfuls of pills chased by long swigs of alcohol. Empty plastic bottles, sitting on their sides, almost judging him. Finishing the whiskey and feeling his head already swimming.

_You might as well do one decent thing._

Stumbling to the bedroom, pausing to catch himself on the walls, but making it back into bed where he curled up on his side and waited. Waiting for darkness to claim him. The world going fuzzy, and then... nothing.

***

Every now and then, he had brief spurts of consciousness. None strong enough to open his eyes, or move, but he could vaguely hear snippets of conversation around him. Flurries of concerned and urgent voices assaulted his ears, just for a few seconds, and then faded away as the world turned back to a void. He'd feel things- needles jabbing into his arms, tubes in his nose, a hand gripping his, a strangely familiar warmth and weight beside him. Where was he? Why was he constantly being poked, prodded, hurt? He just wanted to die. Or had he already died? Was this Hell? Hell was pretty tame if this was it.

Floyd wasn't sure when or what time it was, but eventually, he felt the weight that had settled on him lift slightly. He cracked open his eyes, just a bit, lights almost blinding him after what felt like an eternity of darkness. Somewhere to his left, there was a quiet sobbing noise, and his hand was being white-knuckled like someone's life depended on it. There were tubes in his nose. He could feel them. More concerning, honestly, was the tube in his throat. His fucking throat! Why was there a tube in his throat?!

"... Floyd?" The sobbing ceased and whoever-it-was spoke his name breathlessly. After a moment of processing, Floyd realized that he knew that voice. That same breathless, tear-choked voice had whispered his name the exact same way after arguments and panic attacks. Earl. "Floyd... are you... are you awake?"

A pause. Was he? _Am I alive?_ His eyes adjusted to the light a little more and Floyd started to realize that he wasn't in Hell, or Heaven, or Purgatory. He was in a hospital. _I'm alive. Shit._ His bleary gaze rested on Earl, whose misty, red eyes shimmered with relief and unshed tears. Earl stood on trembling legs and kissed Floyd's forehead, tears streaking down his cheeks again. The hand that wasn't gripping his reached above the bed for what Floyd assumed was a button. "I was so scared," Earl breathed, hiccuping a sob. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there..."

Floyd tried to answer. He found himself stopped by the tubes down his throat. "Don't," Earl whispered, stroking his boyfriend's hair softly. "You're on a ventilator. Don't talk, you'll hurt yourself." In response, Floyd weakly lifted a hand, pawed around half-blindly for the tubes, and tugged slightly when he found them. Earl quickly gripped his hand and pulled it away, holding it tight. "No, baby, please, they're trying to help you..."

A doctor chose that moment to walk in. "Welcome to the world of the waking," he said, a smile on his face. Floyd glowered as best he could in response, then gestured for pencil and paper as best he could. "Oh. You have something you need to say?" A stiff nod. The doctor glanced around the room, gave the universal 'one minute' gesture, then disappeared, returning shortly with a notebook and pen. Floyd scribbled something down, then displayed it to the doctor and Earl.

'get these fucking tubes out of me'

"We can't, yet. Not until we're positive your lungs are strong enough to function on their own."

In response, Floyd crossed something out, scribbled something else down, and showed his effort again.

'get these fucking ~~tubes~~ needles out of me'

"Again, we can't. You're being fed through the IV while you're on the ventilator."

Floyd cursed internally and held back frustrated tears. Dammit. The little voice chimed in again.

_You can't even die right._

***  
Several days passed, Floyd flitted in and out of consciousness, and eventually he was allowed to come off the ventilator. He was fully prepared to shout obscenities, question why Earl didn't just leave him to die in peace, why he was such a miserable fuck-up that he couldn't even commit suicide correctly, but his throat felt like it had been stung by a million angry hornets. He was relegated to hoarse whispers while his throat healed. "How long was I asleep?" he asked, sounding sort of like he'd gargled with gravel.

"Just now or overall?"

"Second one."

"They had you in an induced coma for a few days." Earl ran his fingers through Floyd's hair. "Then they gave you sedatives when you came out of that so you wouldn't be doing the ventilator's work for it. You need to rest. You... you really could've hurt yourself."

"That was the fucking point."

A pregnant pause. Floyd coughed, whimpered in agony as he did so, and then managed another sentence. "Please tell me I'm dying."

"You're not. Thank God." Earl was obviously holding back tears of his own, and let out a shuddering sigh to collect himself before continuing. "The Tylenol fucked up your liver a little, but... it could've been worse. I..." Earl sighed again, swallowed hard, and whispered, "You're gonna go in the psych ward for a little bit, so you'll-"

"The fuck I am."

"You have to! I... I tried to talk the doctor out of it but he said it's procedure when someone..." Earl couldn't even start to spit out the words 'attempts suicide'. "I'm so sorry, Floyd, I... I tried, I don't want you away from home longer than you have to be, but I... I couldn't..."

Floyd glared at Earl, turned over, and pulled the blanket over his head. He had nothing more to say. What could he say? He fucked up killing himself, and now his boyfriend- the person who was supposed to love him- was sending him to a nut house.

"I'm so sorry," Earl whispered one more time, voice heavy with tears. "I love you. Please believe me when I say that, Floyd. I love you so much." He felt a hand on his shoulder. "I just want you to be okay. I know you think I'm doing this to hurt you, but... but I swear, I'm not. I want you to be happy. I want you to love yourself as much as I love you." A hiccup. "I'm not doing this because I hate you. I just... I'm terrified of losing you. I can't lose you."

Floyd felt red-hot rage course through his veins, and cursed the fact that he was too weak, physically and mentally, to act on it. He wanted to scream, cry, tell Earl that if he really did love him he would have let him die instead of keeping him alive just because he "couldn't lose him." Instead, he opted to poke his head out of the scratchy hospital blanket. Earl almost immediately kissed his forehead, ignoring the fact that Floyd was trying to burn a hole in him with his glaring.

"I love you. Y-you... you know I love you. Right?"

Another pause. Heavy. Floyd's silence was cold. Earl held his breath, waiting for a response.

It came, but not in the form he was expecting. "I hate you." Floyd's hoarse, scratchy voice was clogged with uncried sobs, but it was very distinctly three words, seven letters, and not positive in the slightest. For a minute, Earl felt his heart shatter, then he remembered the doctor had mentioned this kind of thing being a possibility.

"I know you don't mean that," Earl whispered in response. "I understand you're angry at me for finding you. And maybe a little mad at yourself. But I know you don't mean that." He wiped his eyes, forcing back the tears that desperately wanted to come. "I'm not angry at you. I'm sorry that you're hurting. I'm sorry you feel that way right now." He sounded like a robot, but what else was he supposed to do? "I love you, Floyd. I love you so much. And I'm sorry that I have to send you away from home to get the help that you need, but I'm not a doctor. I can't help you the way they can." He stroked Floyd's cheek gently, almost relieved when Floyd didn't turn away or push his hand off. "I was terrified that I was going to lose you, and... I don't know what I would do if I did. I promise I'm not lying or keeping you alive out of spite, if that's what you think. I want to help you get better."

He kissed Floyd's forehead and glanced up at the clock over the door. "Visting hours are almost over. I'll give you some time to cool off. We can talk more in the morning." Earl stroked his boyfriend's hair, stood, and whispered, "I love you," one more time before vanishing out the door.

For a moment, in the darkness of his room with the only sound his own blood rushing through his ears and the soft beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, Floyd felt hatred he'd only felt for his father boiling. Then the reality of what just happened hit him.

_I told Earl I hated him. And he didn't get mad. He still loves me... right?_

But what if he didn't? What if that was the straw that broke the camel's back, and now Floyd really was entirely alone in the world? What if he was just telling him that so he didn't snap right then and there? He'd just ruined his relationship with the one person that loved him more than anything, and now he really did have nobody. Nobody that gave a shit.

Hot tears welled in his eyes, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he cried.

***  
Floyd wasn't sure what time he fell asleep, only that he apparently did. When he jerked awake, the sun was up, and Earl was sitting beside him, perched on the mattress. "Hey. Good morning, sunshine," Earl whispered, a fond smile on his face. Fond. Tender. Loving. _He still loves me._

It took a moment of processing, but before he fully realized what was happening, Floyd felt his face crumple, and he curled against Earl's chest before breaking into harsh sobs. "I'm sorry!" he wailed, as loudly as his sore throat would let him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking _sorreeheeheeeeeee_!" Earl wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight, gathering his beloved to him as best he could. Floyd sounded like a broken record, apologies cut off only by sharp gasps for air and ragged sobs.

"Shhhh, shhh, baby, it's alright," Earl murmured. "I know you didn't mean it." Floyd hiccuped once, twice. He'd given himself the hiccups. It would've been cute if he hadn't done it gasping for air mid-breakdown. "You're okay. It's okay. We're okay."

"You-" hiccup! "Y-you d-don't-" hiccup! "h-h-hate me...?"

"No, no, no. I never could." Earl kissed the top of Floyd's head gently. "I know you didn't mean that. You were upset. And, yeah, I was too." Floyd sobbed, hiccuped, and gazed up at Earl with reddened eyes. Earl smiled tenderly in answer. "I don't hate you. I love you."

"P-promise...?"

"Promise. Pinky promise." Earl kissed Floyd's forehead gently. "Double-pinky promise with sprinkles on top."

Floyd felt himself smile. A smile! A real, genuine smile! "... I-" hiccup! "L-love you t-too..."

Earl pulled Floyd practically into his lap and continued to pet his hair. "It's gonna be okay," he whispered, as Floyd's sobs and hiccups quietly died out. "I promise it's gonna be okay."

For the first time, possibly ever, Floyd believed him.


End file.
